*A/N: As I’m sure you’ve figured out by now, the tags on this novel aren’t for show. This Chapter especially contains so dark and potentially disturbing thes, getting a little more graphic than I usually go. Just thought I’d give you a heads-up.
The doors of the Drunken Lily opened to reveal a grand lobby, trimd with gold and darkly stained wood. Several marble statues depicting scantily clad won stood as sentinels in the corners, overlooking the waiting seats and front counter. Two sets of stairs ascended around the counter, joining together in a grand staircase that provided access to the upper floors. Several dozen human n milled about the polished stone floor, clutching numbered wooden cards and waiting for the mistress to call them forward.
Soltair’s shining armor drew imdiate attention, prompting a beefy man to approach. He wore a sleeveless leather vest and had a short sword and club strapped to his belt.
"No weapons," he grunted, jerking his thumb at the door. "Leave before I call the guard."
Although the guard was nearly two heads taller, Soltair seed to tower over him. He looked the man up and down and the edges of his lips curved downward. Sensing sothing of the ferocious aura hidden within the young man, the guard laid a hand on his sword and flexed nacingly.
"We’re not here as custors," Soltair said, loud enough to draw the attention of everyone in the lobby."
"Then we don’t want ya," the man snarled back.
"I wouldn’t be so sure. I’m here to speak with Bilgon."
He scowled. "That’s MISTRESS Bilgon to you, boy."
Soltair’s eye flashed, his frown quickly fading to a smile. "And that’s HERO to you, oaf."
I groaned, blushing at his shalessness, and even Trithe covered her face with her hands. How long had he been setting that up? Even so, it had its intended effect as a mature, middle-aged woman hustled over, waving her hands desperately.
"The Sun Hero!" she cried, sharply elbowing the guard out of the way. "Forgive our lack of hospitality. We’ve had plenty of trouble these past few weeks, as I’m sure you know. Have you co to sample our services? No, judging by your company, perhaps you’d like to rent one of our specialty rooms. I assure you, we have everything that might suit your needs, from soft sheets to more... provocative items. We’re the number one-"
Mistress Bilgon was practically shaking, bowing repeatedly as she rambled on about the quality and guarantees provided by their whorehouse. She wore a fancy silk dress with a bold neckline, although the tight fabric and golden chains did little more than accentuate the weight gained from a life of luxury. Her makeup was no less atrocious than any of the whores out in the streets, layered on thick enough to stave off armies. Given the hungry expressions of the n around here, perhaps that was the point.
"-would you like to know our rates?" Finally, she finished.
Soltair shook his head, looking completely disoriented. "No, uh, we’re not looking to rent a room." He gave a sudden glance at Trithe and blushed slightly. "Not now, at least. Lord Byron sent us here to et with the n investigating the recent attack on your establishnt. Would you be able to introduce us?"
"Of course, of course. Forgive my assumptions," Mistress Bilgon said hastily. "I’ll send for them at once."
"Thank you."
As she waved down one of the girls behind the counter, she shot him a conspiratory wink. "If you can track down our missing girls, I’ll let you spend as much ti anywhere or with anyone you want."
Once we were alone again, as much as one could be in a bustling lobby like this, Trithe leaned forward, glaring at Soltair. "Don’t embarrass again," she muttered, then leaned in closer, her lips nearly brushing his ear, and whispered in a voice too quiet for humans to hear, "But that offer didn’t sound half bad. Soft silks are much better than the untad forest."
"Trithe!" Soltair exclaid, face going beet red.
"What? Don’t say you weren’t tempted." Upon seeing my stare, she quickly blushed. "I just asked if any of those girls caught his fancy!"
I turned away, feeling restless. That kind of forwardness was what I expected from the blonde-haired girl, yet it still played with my heart. Whatever might have been between Soltair and myself was gone, so why was it so hard to let go? Even knowing he was likely to cast aside, I couldn’t shake his glowing image in my mind. His gentle, loving arms, or his outstretched hand.
"Well, looky here!" A drunken voice wafted over, dragging a scraggy-bearded man after it. His gait was sudden and unpredictable, and his breath stank of alcohol. That alone could give him enough courage to approach the heavily armored party of the hero in a room that gave us plenty of space.
He staggered up to without hesitating, and I stepped back as his clawed fingers reached forward. "I bet you’re a real beauty, under that cloak. A little small for my taste, but sure as hell beats waiting for those nice girls."
"N-no, please," I whimpered, looking desperately at Soltair. Feeling completely helpless, I stumbled back until I pressed up against the wall, finding no solace in the hard unforgiving grains of wood.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Soltair and Trithe still locked in intimate conversation. They must have noticed my situation but chose to leave it alone. I squird, clenching my dress in my hands as he felt at my chest, his leer growing as he stooped to peer under my hood.
"Don’t worry, girl," he muttered crassly, continuing to grope at . "You’re a slave, so it’s not like they care. You’re so soft, and innocent. Don’t worry, I’ll take care of that."
His rough touch sent shudders throughout my entire body, and he lood above , cutting off any avenue of escape. A strained cry escaped my lips as he pulled at roughly, tearing at my sensitive flesh.
No. Not again. Shadowy mories of my previous life flitted through my mind, of the countless tis I’d experienced this sa pain and terror. As his fingers pulled at the hem of my dress, seeking to expose my chest, everything turned dark, and I instinctively drew on my mana. My aura erupted in a veritable storm of power, and even the man’s drunken instincts reacted, his eyes widening. But before he could so much as pull away, the spark lit by Lord Byron ignited.
Drive by my feelings of helplessness and sorrow, three magic circles blazed to life and a torrent of wind swept through the lobby. Paper, hats, and coats were swept around, torn from their owners by the unwieldy currents. The drunken man scread, his fingers leaving long red gashes across my skin as the winds bound and jerked him away. Careening through the air, he smashed into the outer wall with a sickening crack, hardly slowing as he forced through the stiff boards and stonework.
A storm of splinters spurted out of the collision and were caught up in the storm, slashing at the exposed flesh of the people in the crowded lobby. The man’s body flipped into the hole, ripping past the fractured boards and disappearing outside. Red rays of the setting sun filtered in through the crevasse, dancing on the glistening spurts of blood clinging to the jagged tips of the broken board. As quickly as it appeared, the wind vanished.
The first droplets struck the ground, audible in the stifling silence of the brothel. But by the ti the second drips landed, their gentle rhythm was lost in the screams.
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